One Flew Over
by treneka
Summary: To see the world in a grain of sand takes an active imagination - of which Hakkai Cho is thankfully possessed. This story contains clinical insanity of various forms. Warning: AU. Note: rating changed for language.
1. One Flew over

_Castle Pines Sanitorium. Colorado, 1946. Spring. _

They're playing "jeep" again. Cho is the first one to make it to the common room, and I watch him set up the chairs. As usual, his movements are graceful and his placement precise; more like a geisha about to perform a tea ceremony than a "disturbed" twenty-seven-year-old about to reaffirm the delusions this group shares. The chairs are aligned facing the big picture windows on the western wall, side by side with the little magazine pedestal in between. A bit of white fluff is pulled from a pocket and reverently placed on the pedestal. There is a small snag today; the love seat that invariably gets pressed into service for the remaining two seats was taken away yesterday to be reupholstered. I see Cho looking for it, and wonder how he'll react to its absence. He's a tiny bit more "present" than the others, so I'm not too worried. Others might throw a fit at such a change in their environment, but Cho adapts. As long as his little stuffed dragon is still perched on the magazine pedestal, I'm sure he'll find a way to finish the "jeep."

It doesn't take him too long. He's pulled the piano bench over and aligned it behind the "front seats" well before the others show up. He runs a hand through his hair, stares out the windows, smiles that bemused, self-conscious smile and murmurs something. I've known him long enough to realize that he's not speaking to himself. No indeed. Most likely, he's discussing today's "journey" with the little dragon. Its name is Hakuryuu, which I guess means something like "white dragon" in Japanese. A practical name from a practical man who just happens to live in an utterly impractical world. Cho takes that dragon almost everywhere, but doesn't admit it. In his mind, the dragon flies, and I think sometimes Cho believes its wings might just grant him freedom from his current existence. Why else would he claim that the "jeep" and the dragon are really the same creature? Freedom embodied in a stuffed animal – childish, but somehow poignant in this place where childhood fantasies and adult realities so often blend confusingly.

Cho looks back towards the observation desk. He sees me watching him. I wonder who I will be today. Cho is not the group leader – far from it – but he does have the odd distinction of deciding the reality for the day. If he says they'll make it to an "inn" before nightfall, then the four of them will likely sleep in their own rooms without too much fuss come lights out. If he claims they're too far away, they'll try to doze off in the chairs, and fight any orderlies like mad, should they bother to try moving them. Cho decides how many hours the "jeep" can drive before calling a halt, and whether the other patients are people or animals or trees. He's very subtle about it. He never comes out and designates anything, but I've watched this game a hundred times and there's no doubt where the cues come from. The others may be more flamboyant, but Cho is, well, influential.

He pats the dragon on the head and walks over to me. He seems relaxed and has a friendly if slightly artificial smile on his face. At least I haven't been cast as a bad guy just yet, although sometimes it's hard to tell. He had that same smile on his face the time he broke Walter's arm. But it didn't reach his eye that day – did I mention he only has one? In any case, he stops just out of arm's reach. Some part of his mind remembers the rules about approaching doctors.

"Good morning." His voice is polite and mild. It never ceases to amaze me how many of the staff have been completely snowed by that voice. He sounds like the kindergarten teacher he claims to have wanted to be. I know better than to let my guard down. He's wearing the earrings Sanzo gave him, but that's no guarantee. That's kind of a long story, and I realize I'm staring.

"Good morning, Cho, did you sleep well?"

"Ah, yes. The rooms were quite comfortable, thank you." I'm guessing I'm an innkeeper. I've played this role before, and don't mind it really. In this role, I'm allowed to make small talk, and I'd have to really screw up royally for the situation to get violent.

"Glad they suited. What can I do for you?" He's not really the kind to talk to anyone out of the group for no reason. Sha is pretty social and Goku will talk to anyone if there's food or fighting involved, but Cho is more comfortable with solitude and silence.

"I was wondering if perhaps I could persuade your cook to pack us provisions for the road? It looks to be a two day drive to the next village and I'm sure you noticed how much our young companion eats." His tone is guileless, but a hint of something darker wavers in his eye. He is a bit more "present" than the others, after all, and he knows I, the doctor, do not approve of overnight trips. He also knows that I, the innkeeper, should have no objection. And here I was hoping things might be friendly today.

Goku's voice comes echoing down the hall. He's arguing about something with Sha and I realize I have to think fast. "You know, Mr. Cho, there's a hunting cabin just a little over a day's drive from here. If you push, you could probably make it by nightfall." I'm bending the "rules" and I know it. I'm not supposed to make "reality" decisions, but he did cast me in a role where that was a possibility. The cabin thing would at least mean they'll all go back to the quarters area to sleep. Cho'll probably decide that a hunting cabin only has one room, and as such they'll all wind up together in one of their designated spaces, but at least I wouldn't have to have orderlies try to drag them out of the common area. Besides, bed-check is easier with only one bed to check. I mentally cross my fingers, and breathe a sigh of relief as he relents.

"Ah, indeed? How convenient," he says, his eyebrow arching in speculation before he looks me in the eye. "We'll aim to stop there then." And he laughs lightly. Who's playing who here is anyone's guess.

"I'll go talk to the cook about your provisions. It should only take a few minutes."

"What should only take a few minutes? Huh?" Goku has arrived, and I watch Cho's face for that brief but lovely moment as the last shreds of "here" are forgotten and companionship and the anticipation of the journey take over. He smiles at Goku as he would never smile at anyone outside of their group.

"Our host is going to see to provisions for the day." I take that as my cue and walk over to the observation desk to fill out the requisition.

"Oh! Will there be meat buns? They had really good ones. Tell him to pack lots. I could eat at least thirty, just for me, okay?" Goku's hyper, happy voice carries, and I glance over at them. Cho catches my eyes and I nod. Meat buns it is, and he'll reach that cabin come hell or high water.

Then Sha smacks Goku on the back of the head and says something along the lines of "but you just ate." I don't have to hear it to know the cadence of a familiar round of teasing and arguing. They make their way over to Cho's arrangement of furniture and squeeze together on the piano bench. Sanzo finally arrives, walking over to speak in quiet tones with Cho before joining the others in the "jeep."

The nurses are more than a little used to this routine. I notice someone has put a fair bit of effort into the dainties and victuals in the basket that Marjorie hands me, and I can only wonder at the way these four patients effect people. Cho notices too, and smiles in appreciation. It's not quite a genuine smile, but the last traces of calculation and anger are gone, so I return it.

"Have a safe trip." For your sake and ours, I don't have to add.

"Thank you." An almost smile, a polite laugh, and he walks gracefully to his place in the "jeep." I watch him hand the basket to Sha. I watch Sha and Goku squabble. I watch Sanzo smack them both with his newspaper. I watch their world complete itself. Reality has been decided, and Cho smiles contentedly over an invisible steering wheel. They're playing "jeep" again today. Somehow, I can't bring myself to want to stop them.


	2. The Peacock and the Soldier

a/n: This is a second short-story set in the 'One Flew Over' universe. It is not meant to be a continuation of the first (there are some slight differences of style which proved problematic), but setting it down as a chapter should avoid confusion regarding the setting. My gratitude to those who read and/or commented on the first work.

**The Peacock and the Soldier**

_Castle Pines Sanitorium. Colorado, various years. Spring._

The only thing worse than a megalomaniacal cult leader is the follower he left behind. If Cho determines reality for those four, it is Sanzo who determines purpose. He's the ring leader, the taskmaster. He's the one who tells them where to go, what to do, and how to do it. He's more than a bit of a prima-donna, yet in spite of that, he bears a certain undeniable charisma. Still, he can be frustrating.

Sanzo has been here for a little over three years. He had been in a facility in Michigan, but somehow his benefactors thought he'd be better off here, and a transfer was arranged. There is a lot of money and guilt floating around Sanzo's files. Some ladies' charity organization sponsors his care and every year, we get the brochures regarding the tragedy of New Hope and the suffering of its followers. There are only two left now. The other one is in prison for hunting down and killing the law officers who tore down the cult's headquarters. While I'd be the first to admit it was a sad sequence of events, I'm not entirely sure that any of them have the right idea about what went on there. Sanzo isn't talking.

What I do know is that the New Hope cult revolved around a man named Koumyou Sanzo, that he was apparently a well-respected student of eastern philosophy, and that his flock didn't get it. He advocated personal enlightenment and responsibility. His followers got wrapped up in the trappings of eastern cultures and later, in the habit of "adopting" impressionable children without their parents' permission. The Feds busted the cult for this second practice and the locals got vicious, saying that the cultists were Jap-lovers. Pearl Harbor wasn't all that long ago. Everybody has a brother or a father or a son in need of vengeance. Things got ugly, a lot of people died and in the end, this kid Sanzo (name by choice, parentage uncertain) was left behind.

How he wound up institutionalized is a sad but boring story. Too much trauma followed by too little love can do a number on almost anyone, and Sanzo was no exception. He jumped into schizophrenia with all the enthusiasm of a champion pole-vaulter, but the depth of his imagination and the strength of his personality created a purpose to his madness. He has to find something. Specifically, he has to find the secret to the creation of the world, which he says is written on a scroll that was stolen from his Master. Interesting, eh? He's sure it's out west, so that's the direction the foursome always "drives."

---

My predecessor was of the opinion that Genjyo Sanzo is a sociopath. Looking back, I suppose I can understand why he thought that. Sanzo has been here the longest of the four. He is decidedly anti-social, has a tendency to anger the nursing staff and even goes as far as abusing his fellow patients on occasion. He can be bitingly sarcastic, and that incredible intelligence of his has been used to verbally eviscerate more than one of the visitors who occasionally drop by to see him. In short, he gives every appearance of being utterly self-centered, unapproachable, and unconcerned about whom his actions wound; an arrogant, icy peacock of a man. But that's not really the truth. What Sanzo is, truly, is a pretender.

But he used to be a very good one.

Oddly enough, I don't think even I would have seen the cracks in the shell if it hadn't been for Son Goku. That kid's history is a nightmare even the staff won't discuss. He was brought here after his tour; catatonic, unresponsive, prognosis uncertain. We didn't really know what to do for him beyond the usual. It's sad, but war does that to people. He's a former P.O.W and a war hero, although I doubt if he'll ever remember that. As for what he did... well, they say that patriotism is the virtue of the vicious. I can understand not wanting to remember some things.

In any case, when he first arrived we used to sit him in an arm chair where he could see out one of the windows. He was the only catatonic in the ward at the time. There were the usual evaluations and such, but short of shock therapy there aren't many standard treatments, so he spent a lot of time alone in that chair. The nurses thought he was cute – he's only nineteen or so – and would braid his hair or leave little garlands of paper flowers around his neck. The orderlies occasionally got a kick out of posing him, until I found out and put a stop to it. Goku never so much as twitched in response. That was how things were when Sanzo started complaining.

At first, I figured this was simply another part of the act. Sanzo is most certainly not right in the head (his first month here he refused to refer to the facility as anything other than "the monastery"), but neither is he as psychotic as he'd like us to believe. From time to time, I think he gets worried that he might improve enough to be released and that's when some bizarre new behavior will invariably make its appearance. This looked like exactly that sort of thing. Sanzo would avoid Goku's corner of the common room like the plague, all the while watching it like a hawk. His stare was odd, in that it wasn't the sort you'd wear while observing a human mannequin – it was the sort you'd throw at someone giving a speech you didn't agree with.

"Are you going to shut that kid up any time soon?" Sanzo tossed the question in my face as though I was personally responsible for every inconvenience in his life. I didn't let it get to me, though. I'd known him too long.

"What kid, Sanzo?"

"The kid in the cave, asshole! The kid who won't shut up day or night. The kid who's been screaming for help for the past four days. THAT kid."

"You mean Goku?" He shot me a glare that clearly questioned my intelligence. He thinks I'm an idiot, I think he's an angst-ridden, mentally unbalanced agoraphobe. No hurt feelings here. "He's catatonic, Sanzo. He hasn't said a word since he came here. Of course, you're welcome to talk with him about it." I smiled, knowing it would annoy him. "There's a theory that catatonics can hear and see everything that goes on around them. They're simply unable to respond."

"Like hell. He's _your_ responsibility. That kid's going to drive me nuts." I smirked at him and his eyes narrowed, daring me to comment on his choice of phrases. I already knew he was nuts; he preferred calling it "enlightened."

"If he's bothering you that much, why don't you ask him to be quiet?" As a general rule, we aren't supposed to go along with our delusional patient's fantasies, but over time, as you realize which ones are never going to come around, you begin to learn to pick your battles. Sanzo's anger was still at the moderately amusing/annoying level for now, but I knew he was close to that edge where self-isolation and combative behavior were a breath away. I didn't feel energetic enough to deal with it that morning.

In any case, Sanzo had shut up about it and gone off to the opposite side of the room to sulk and smoke. Quite a few of our patients smoke, although alcohol is strictly forbidden. I've often wondered why a drug like nicotine is not more regulated, but considering that most of the staff smokes, it does make life easier all around here simply allowing it. Sanzo was certainly more malleable when not in nicotine withdrawal. I watched him for several moments before being called away.

That afternoon, one of our female patients attempted suicide. It happens from time to time, sadly enough. She wasn't on suicide watch – she was here for depression but had never shown any signs of the sort of thinking that would lead to her stuffing a pillowcase far enough down her throat rupture her esophagus. I noticed the latest letter from her husband on the bed after they'd taken her away, and had to sigh. Sad that a woman could be treated so horribly just for being too ambitious and intelligent to settle comfortably into housewifery. The cages some women live in make me more than a little sick. I made notes in her file to try a new approach in counseling, and modified the schedule to put her on watch when she got back from the e.r.

Of course it made the rest of the patients restless, and the orderlies had their hands full getting everyone settled that night. No matter how quickly we deal with it or how quiet we keep it, they can always sense despair. Somehow in all the work and confusion, Goku got left behind, and it was after nine when I finally realized he wasn't in his room. I headed back to the observation desk to see about getting help moving him, and witnessed something very strange. The arm chair in which he sat was pulled close to the window as always, but soft murmurs of conversation escaped around the edges of worn corduroy upholstery.

"I wasn't calling you." The voice was childish, but with a roughness around the edges that spoke of long disuse.

"Bullshit. You've been keeping me up nights, so shut up already, got it? It's bad enough being here without having to put up with your noise."

"Where am I?"

"What are you blind too?" There was a pause I could almost hear being filled with one of Sanzo's characteristic glares, but then, "Crazy and stupid. You're in a cave on top of a mountain." Great, now Sanzo was sharing his psychoses. Well, at least Goku was responsive.

"Oh... it's cold. The bars... I can't get out." I heard a very boyish whimper, and remembered horrifying photographs of bamboo cages and half-starved soldiers. I saw the top of Sanzo's head begin to rise from the edge of the chair.

"Not my problem. Just quit it with the yelling, or else." By now Mark, the swing shift head orderly, had joined me in eavesdropping. He shot me a look at this last bit of speech, wondering if a second intervention was going to be needed. I held up a hand to stay him. There was something in Sanzo's voice I'd not heard before and I didn't want to give up on it just yet.

"Please, don't leave." There was desperation in the strange, young voice. Sanzo's head disappeared back behind the chair once more, and I wondered what it was about the soldier that had so ensnared the peacock's attention.

"I'm not staying up here all night, idiot." But there was the slightest trace of uncertainty in the ordinarily scathing words. Abruptly, Sanzo stood up. I wondered what he'd have to say about our eavesdropping, but his attention remained focused on the chair. In one rough motion, he reached down and hauled the chair's occupant up by the armpits. "_I'm_ not staying here. Whether you _do_ is your own choice." Goku stumbled against him, and the peacock unhesitatingly put an arm around the younger man's waist, steadying him. They turned back towards the hallway, and Mark and I moved forward, ready to take Goku to his room. Violet eyes met mine with withering challenge, however, and I stopped.

"Huh?" Mark was confused, and I couldn't blame him. Even so, there had been no mistaking the message in that look. Sanzo was taking Goku, and woe betide the mortal who interfered. It was the first time the peacock had shown even the slightest humane interest in his fellow man, and the intensity of it shocked me. Goku for his part didn't seem to notice. He was smiling brightly at his benefactor, odd golden eyes sparkling with a life they hadn't held in the entire time he'd been our guest.

"Where are we going? Do we have a long way to go? Is there food there? I'm kinda hungry, Sanzo." He was like a kid on his way to Coney Island. I wondered about the possibility of a split personality, so utterly changed was the voice from the hopeless one in the chair.

"Shut up, idiot. We'll get food in the morning." Sanzo's voice was harsh and abrasive as always, but the undertone of arrogance and imperviousness usually so prevalent was curiously softened. The younger man continued to ask questions and Sanzo continued replying with a tone of minimal tolerance as they disappeared into Sanzo's room.

That was almost two years ago.

I watch the two this afternoon as they take a break from their "drive". Sanzo is sitting on one of the hard, wooden window seats as the younger man stands in front of him, gesturing grandly with arms that are seldom still. The peacock is smoking and seems quite relaxed, but the newspaper is in his other hand. Goku is yelling about some injustice Sha has done him, and Sanzo's face clearly registers irritation at the young man's decibel level. In my mind, I can practically track the countdown: five... four... three... two... one. Sanzo's newspaper connects with Goku's head in a resounding thwack. At the observation desk, Marjorie looks up from her novel to give me an inquiring look. I wave her down. After all, I know what comes next. Goku bounces back, whining to Sanzo.

"Why do you always have to do that?" He's hurt by the paper, but gratified by the attention.

"Because stupid monkeys are too idiotic to learn from the first hundred times," Sanzo growls, snuffing his cigarette in the metal ash tray beside the window. "If you don't stop your yammering, I'm leaving you behind. I can't even hear myself think."

Sha and Cho, watching from their resting place beside the "jeep," are abruptly silent. Their eyes focus on Sanzo, gaging his level of sincerity and charging the air with a tension that even the other patients can feel. For half an instant, I'm wondering whether I'm going to need the pentothal in my pocket. Then some glance spans the distance between the teenager and his strange savior, and Sanzo sighs with devastating nonchalance. The two sitting beside the "jeep" are immediately calmer. Sha accepts Sanzo's sigh as sign enough that stability – if you can call it that – has returned, and resumes the joke he'd been telling Cho. Cho watches Sanzo a moment more, until the peacock reaches out to ruffle the soldier's hair. Then the one-eyed man returns his attention to Sha and I remember to breathe again.

Beside the window seat, Goku is smiling and watching Sanzo with undisguised adoration. For his part, the older man ignores it. He gives the grinning young man a shove in the direction of the "jeep." He growls at his companions that break-time is over. He seats himself in the "passenger seat" with an air of annoyance, and his face is a well crafted mask of disgust with life in general and his friends in particular. But Cho laughs quietly at him. Sanzo is pretending, and though he might be able to fool himself, he cannot fool the ones who care about him.

And he cannot fool me.


	3. Stains

a/n: First of all, thank you to everyone who's taken the time to read this story. I'm glad you've liked it, hated it, thought the metaphores were good, thought I should have stopped at a single chapter, believe the doctor might be Nii and think I don't know squat about psychiatry. You're half right. :) Anyway, here is another anecdote in the world of Castle Pines. It is once again stylistically different from the other two. I have taken liberties with the discovery date of streptomycin (it was actually 1943, but 44 works better for me - and distribution probably took time anyway: this is fiction afterall). And for the record, the opinions of the doctor and Sha's mother on certain controversial subjects are not consistent with the author's. Literary criticism is welcome, but personal attacks are not. This is just a story. Hope you enjoy it.

**Stains**

_Castle Pines Sanitorium. Colorado, various years. Fall._

You can choose to be crazy, if you want it badly enough. In the shifting realms of the subconscious, reality is dictated as much by desire as by truth, and all it takes is a moment's weakness to let go of the one to grasp the other. Or at least that's what a certain German psychoanalyst would have you believe. By that logic, Gojyo Sha is a slave to his desires, who found a master in the form of Hakkai Cho.

Sha's mother would like to claim he's fey: a fairy, a queer, a pretty boy, depending on your regional background. She's the righteously indignant first wife of a very old school Mormon. The trouble began when her husband decided to bring home wife number two already carrying his child, and wife number one decided to hate them both with every fiber of her being. Things got worse when the second wife had the misfortune to die in childbirth, and the husband, in his grief, abandoned the family. Sha's mother was left with two boys (one of her own, in addition to Sha), a ton of debt, and the stigma of being left to fend for herself. Calling Sha's childhood 'unloving' would be coining the understatement of the year. The sad part about it is that he genuinely loves his mother.

But as I said, the woman keeps trying to claim her son is incurably homosexual. That's still classified as a mental illness in this state, with favored treatments ranging from aversion therapy to psychoactive drugs to faith healing. Lately the woman has been sending me pamphlets from some quack out in Utah who advocates frontal lobotomy for the treatment of the disease. The bitch is out to kill her rival's son, in my personal opinion, but she's clever about her wording, so the likelihood of my being able to force her to get help is pretty slim. Truth be told, I wouldn't want her for a patient anyway. Hatred is one illness I've never had much luck with.

As for Sha, well, he _is_ a bit more tactile than most of our patients. His need to touch and be touched is very real, and it's true he doesn't differentiate between the sexes. In the course of any given day, he'll cop a feel of any nurse who gets too close. He likes to wrestle with Goku, lean on Cho. I've even seen him play the "I'm not touching you" game with Sanzo a time or two, although those instances were clearly a case of taking his life in his hands. It's compulsive. Every nudge and tickle and brush is a reaffirmation of his existence – the existence Cho crafted for him.

You see, in their little world, Sha isn't the rejected, unloved bastard who never amounted to anything. He isn't the slowly recovering TB victim whose mother committed him at the age of seventeen to a lifetime of therapy and confusion. Instead, he's a cardsharp and ladies' man. He's confident, charismatic and desirable with a ready wit and much-needed skills. And the red in his hair never meant he was dying.

-

Sha only ever asked me for one favor. It was a doozie, but still, just one. It happened on an overcast afternoon in October of '44, about a month after he arrived at the facility, and I should have known immediately the kind of trouble he'd found.

At the time, Sha was in the TB ward. In the days before streptomycin, that ward was the main concern of the entire facility. Most of the folks in it had come to Colorado in hopes that high altitude and dry, clean air might save them from the slow death of consumption. Of course, Sha had caught the disease in the first place while living in a hospital in Salt Lake. I don't think his mother arranged it, but I wouldn't really put it past her. In any case, she'd had him transferred here to better prove herself the selfless martyr, and we'd decided the TB took precedence over any supposed mental illness.

He was pretty far along, but still cheerful-at least on the outside. I think a part of him had decided that if the disease killed him, at least his mother would finally be happy. You'd see him smiling when he went for the outdoor strolls so recommended in the course of treatment. He wasn't careful when he coughed though, and the tips of his hair were always stained crimson. It worried and disgusted quite a few of the staff. Myself, I ignored it. Blood didn't really bother me – or at least not the blood on his hair. It was the stains on his hands, coat and trousers that had me worried.

"Say Doc, you got a minute?" His voice was calm and casual, as though nothing at all were out of the ordinary. A slight, if-you-don't-have-time-for-me-it's-no-big-deal-I'll-just-die smile quirked his lips. I hadn't been doing anything more important than all that blood, so I shook my head and gestured for him to come inside. He hesitated, looking behind him across the lawn. "Think we could go talk in the equipment shed?" I must have looked unenthusiastic because he continued. "I kinda got a favor I wanted to ask you."

Between his tone and the slowly drying bloodstains I figured it was pretty important. The equipment shed was on the far western edge of the grounds, and not often used in fall and winter because first of all, there wasn't much lawn maintenance you could do through three feet of snow and second, it was too big a walk for the staff to use it on their breaks. Whatever the hell Sha wanted out there, it was bound to be something major. Still, he was something of a tough nut to crack. He talked a lot, but almost never about himself. Mention his mother or his brother or god-forbid, the stains in his hair, and he'd clam up tighter than a cherrystone. This sounded serious, and I was naive enough to hope that maybe we'd finally address some issues. I nodded. "Okay. Let me grab a coat." I was about to make a quick trip back to the employee cloakroom when he spoke up one last time.

"Bring that bag of yours too, would ya?" I let the door close and ran to the cloakroom doing a mental inventory on the stuff in my 'bag' as I went. With that kind of blood, I figured he might have found a wounded animal on the grounds, but he might also be hurt himself. He didn't seem wounded, but then again he was pretty good at hiding things where his own welfare was concerned. I made sure I had a decent supply of gauze, sutures and the like as well as some morphine – just in case – and headed back out into the gloomy late-autumn afternoon.

He smiled when he saw I'd done as he'd asked, then strode nonchalantly off across the lawn. I let him lead. He didn't speak, so I didn't either. Whatever it was would come out soon enough. The sky was getting dark by the time we reached the shed and I was a little worried Sha would take a chill, but naturally, he didn't care. He gave the door a shove, and coughed a little. I ignored it, since I knew whipping out my stethoscope wouldn't earn me any points. Instead, I followed him into the dark interior.

Sha didn't stop to get the light. His eyes have always been better than mine. I fumbled around for the chain on the shed's one light bulb while he headed straight back to the furthest corner. As the light came on, I saw him sitting beside a pile of old tarps and gardening aprons... and a ghost-white face, that Sha was trying to hold, but not breathe on.

"He was in the woods a ways," commented Sha. His voice was still uncaring, as though he weren't holding a half-dead man's head in his lap. "I tried to patch him up a bit, but..." he shrugged.

I wasn't really listening. Instead, I'd pulled away the aprons to get a look at the horrible lacerations, the emergent loops of intestine, the powder burns. When I saw the tag on the man's jacket, I swallowed hard, but first aid was more important. If I didn't save him, it wouldn't matter. On the other hand, if I did, Sha was an accessory and so was I.

"Why didn't you get the infirmary staff? They have an emergency team and the duty nurse could easily have alerted them for you." What I really wanted to know was whether he knew who he'd found out there in the woods. I should have known better than to expect an honest answer. He gave me an unreadable look, then turned back to the injured man. Just a good Samaritan.

I did what I could in that cold, exiled shed. Sha made a pretty good assistant once I had him disinfect his hands and tie his hair back. He helped hold skin and muscle in place as I stitched. A trained nurse would have done better, but then so would an experienced surgeon. True, I am a doctor, but my specialty is psychiatry and it had been a very long time since I'd operated on anything like this. By the time I'd finished the last stitch and wiped up the last ooze of blood, I felt like I'd climbed Longs Peak.

"Do you think he'll make it?" Sha wanted to know. Fair enough, I guess. Some part of my mind had an unworthy moment of wondering exactly what kind of interest Sha had, but I was too tired to be truly homophobic. Besides, the question of this man's chances was ironically amusing coming from someone who had maybe three months left himself. Or so I thought. In truth, the streptomycin would save him less than two weeks later, but you never really know your chances on life or death until they arrive.

"Well, everything that could be stitched has been. There is a good probability of infection and sepsis, but if those are avoided, he might pull through." I sat back on the cold floor. "Now, do you want to tell me what you were doing wandering far enough in the forest to pick up a Whiskey Creek mine survivor?" The mine was a good twenty miles away, and in the mountains, twenty miles is infinity. Especially in winter. I'd only heard about the collapse and the sabotage and the fact that the authorities were looking for a certain unaccounted-for explosives technician yesterday, although they said it had probably happened two days before. There was no way this barely living wreck had walked twenty miles in the snow with his entrails in his arms.

Sha wasn't listening to me. He was staring into space while his hands idly stroked the injured man's hair. There was something almost maternal in the gesture, and I gave up. He didn't have to speak to ask for his favor. I didn't have to say a word to grant it.

-

By the time the authorities showed up one month later, all evidence of Cho Gonou had been burned in the basement's furnace. Cho Hakkai had been admitted on false transfer papers as a charity case out of Phoenix. He was allegedly recovering from a car accident on the way over – no other survivors, of course. They left us with the warning that there was a killer on the loose and to watch out for dangerous wild-men in the woods. We all nodded and wore sober faces and agreed. Ignorance is bliss and what they don't know won't kill anybody.

Only I knew that the first time they came looking, their man was recovering in the infirmary. Only I knew that his savior was waiting with him, the two of them practically sharing a bed while one regained the use of his stomach and the other relearned how to breathe. I've since watched Cho Hakkai take back his life, and take Sha's as well – for the hell of it, or because that's just the way he is, I'll never know. Sha surrendered his reality easily enough, but I can't really blame him. Cho surrendered his name at the same time, and that is the greater concern.

Today's newspaper had yet another follow up report on the Whiskey Creek mine disaster. It's been over three years since it happened, but that's not the sort of thing people forget. The police have officially labeled it a cold case. The mine was purchased by the Brisco brothers and is back up and running. The widows have been paid off and have moved away, or at least the ones in any shape to do so. Even so, there are still a couple detectives and at least one bounty hunter nosing around. Castle Pines is the closest human habitation in the area, and part of me knows it's just a matter of time.

In the common room, they're oblivious. The foursome have their cards in hand and imaginary wagers on the battered coffee table. Sanzo is more ignoring than playing. Sha dealt this round, and already Goku is accusing him of cheating. Cho is smiling with the amusement of one who knows he holds four aces, but is waiting for someone to ask him to prove it. Thigh to thigh with him on the love seat, Sha grins and taunts the soldier across from him. His long, black hair is getting in his face, but his bangs are dry. For the tiniest of moments, I think he's smiling at me.

But the fourth wall is always there now. Within his new life, Sha's mother is dead, so I send her letters back unopened. Within his new life, Sha is loved. I can see it in the arguments he has with Goku and the way he teases Sanzo; in the casual embraces he sometimes steals from Cho. I don't interfere – it keeps him from getting serious about the nurses. Sha's got more vitality than a cockroach these days, so I let him stay in the psych ward and keep his checkups to a minimum.

Sha's only ever asked me for one favor, but it was a doozie. If he asked today, I might be smarter, might say 'no', but there's no use worrying about the past. It will drive you crazy if you let it. I just wish the cost of the foursome's happiness hadn't been so high. That shoe is going to have to drop some day.


End file.
